Sunday, 25 September 2011
Catty come home
Well eventually after a couple of little hiccups Pyewackett is settling in - we got her on Friday night and she made a bit for freedom on the Tuesady night. Cue mass panic as we discovered her absence. We did a leaflet drop locally - a damn good way to meet the neighbours - and left bowls of food outside the conservatory moving the bowl in a little closer every evening. Wed moved the bowl right in to the conservatory by Sunday and I distracted her while M snuck through the garage and slammed the door on her.
Ma and I wandered down to town last weekend to indulge in Open House 2011 and enjoyed a walk around a half dozen Wren churches. Thats half a dozen of the 51 churches some which were demolished by the Victorians or in the blitz. So we visited St Lawrence Jewry, St Mary le Bow (within the sound of whose bells true Cockneys are born), St Mary Aldermary, St Stephen Walbrook, St Mary Woolnoth and my favourite and most authentic St Mary Abchurch.
Sadly of many of his churches thoughtfully demolished by the Victorians now theres very little to mark them except a plaque. The street plan of the mediaeval city remains as do many of the street names - Poultry, Milk Street, Ironmonger Lane, Wood Street, Bread Street not to mention Staining Lane and Mincing Lane. Not sure quite what once was for sale in Love Lane though salvation could presumably be found at Paternoster Row just round the corner from Gropec*nt Lane (now no longer used) the sheer number of plaques in the area marking the two pillars of mediaeval society - the church and the guild and the connections between the two as many churches were guild churches.
And so descriptive - St James Garlickhythe, St Margaret Pattens, St Andrew by the Wardrobe, St Benet Gracechurch, St Mary Magdalen Old Fish Street.
The afternoons walk Alleys of the City and that really did stretch the term alley was rain shortened but was enjoyed and hey it was free ended at barts Hospital and Smithfields - formerly yet another place of execution - that final scene of Braveheart - the hanky drooping from Mels hand - the fletting glimpse of his lost love - that was Smithfield.